After being utterly convinced all day yesterday that it was Friday, I am now in the middle of a Friday that feels like a Monday. Well, more like I’m in the first third of a Friday that feels like a Monday. My weekend is going to be full of research reading, and I’m fighting the urge to get started early, especially since more rain has moved in. Curling up on the couch with some tea and oodles of research sounds way more fun than writing a zombie attack or a vampire trapped at a boring orgy.
…yeah, maybe I’m getting sick or something, because the last sentence isn’t really like me at all. I mean, research is great, zombie attacks are too, and the hilarity of the vampire story pleases me immensely, but I’m just not feeling like myself. My dreams were full of strange hybrid beasts and stories, simmering in an unholy broth. While that’s fairly usual, the headache that resulted upon awakening is not. I can blame the headache on the Mad Tortie, who slept in my hair last night.
I’m glad my hair is long enough (Finally!) but the strain on my neck is pretty unbearable. When you add Miss B snuggling as close as she can every time I turn over, it’s a miracle I didn’t fall out of my own damn bed. Fortunately, it’s built pretty low to the ground, and I’m still pretty chewy and bendy at my age, but still.
So I’m pouring down as much water as I can drink, as well as contemplating bowing to the inevitable and taking some ibuprofen. I’ve got to work today, no matter how hard my head is throbbing or my neck feels like tangled wire. There’s just not enough coffee in the world this morning, either.
I wish I had something other than this cavalcade of complaints. Afterwar’s zero draft is set aside to marinate, I have two erotic novelettes I might test in Kindle Unlimited to achieve daily wordcount on, Roadtrip Z needs a zombie attack to move things along, and the Sekrit Projekt has just had its first big batch of murders and will go straight into vengeance. I’m already feeling the nerves from She Wolf’s upcoming release day, too.
Maybe, instead of retreating to the couch, I should just crawl back into bed. Except Odd Trundles decide, after sniffing his breakfast and discerning it was merely kibble (the horror! the horror!), to mutter fuck this shit and make himself comfortable on said bed. Shoveling him aside so I can get back in is more trouble than it’s worth, especially since between the 60lb bulldog and the wriggling Australian Shepherd there’s a space only a contortionist could sleep in.
I guess it’s work after all.
*wanders off to find ibuprofen*